Five Times John Woke Up to Sherlock
by unintentionalgenius
Summary: and One Time He Didn't


_**A/N: Thanks to my beta, ongreenergrasses, who keeps me sane and never lets the run-on sentences get too out of control. Obviously I don't own any of these characters. Too bad, really. Enjoy! Reviews are very welcome.**_

1

John had gotten almost no sleep the night before; Sherlock decided it was a good night to practice the violin, if by "practice" you mean "make it sound like every horrific noise that can ever be teased out of a violin is being made". That being so, anyone would understand why he was relieved when he finally drifted off. It was short-lived: not an hour later, there was something loud and _insistent_ in his bedroom.

"John! There's a case! Are you coming?"

"Sherlock…I've hardly gotten any sleep…"

"I'll tell them we'll be there in 20 minutes."

John got up. Of course.

2

A few weeks later, at about 2 AM, John was in Afghanistan. It was burning hot and he couldn't breathe and there was blood everywhere. His hands were covered in it. He couldn't breathe, something was weighing him down, pressing into his chest, and suddenly his shoulder hurt like _hell_ and Sherlock was bleeding underneath his hands and he was drowning in it, drowning in Sherlock's blood…

"JOHN. Wake UP."

He did. He was covered in sweat and shaking like he'd just vomited, hard, but he sat up and there was Sherlock, still dressed in what he'd been wearing five hours ago, arms on his shoulders.

"Are you alright?"

John knew he didn't need to answer. He leaned into Sherlock, still shaking. Even though he had no idea what to do, Sherlock didn't leave.

3

About a month after that, and a few days after their near-death experience at the pool, John awoke to a solid-sounding _thud_ downstairs. Stealthily sliding out of bed and grabbing his gun from his drawer, he made his way downstairs. He couldn't find anything in the kitchen. There was no one in the main room. The front door was firmly shut, still locked from the inside. The only place left to check was Sherlock's room. John prepared himself to see anything and everything.

What he hadn't prepared himself to see was the great consulting detective, sobbing on the floor, still in the throes of a violent nightmare exacerbated by his entrapment in his bedsheets. John hurriedly put his gun down and knelt beside the sleeping man.

"Sherlock. Sherlock, wake up!" He shook his friend a little.

Sherlock slowly woke and wiped the tears from his face. Even in the dark room, lit by just enough moonlight to let him navigate, John could see the request in Sherlock's eyes. _Stay?_

"Let's get you into bed," he said, pulling the man up. He more carried than helped him into bed, and then he sat down beside him. His face asked _is this ok?_ As Sherlock relaxed, John decided the answer was yes. He made himself comfortable and closed his eyes; he wouldn't go to sleep, he'd just wait until his friend did. Sherlock needed the rest. When he opened his eyes again, it was half eight the next morning, and Sherlock was still soundly asleep, perfectly content snuggled next to John.

4

Two days later, John had somehow fallen asleep in his armchair. Well, not somehow. He knew exactly how. Sherlock had kept him up for the past 48 straight and then decided to play the violin so he could "think through the evidence". Of course, John was necessary for this process; he couldn't dream of going so far away as to his bedroom. Sherlock might need him at any moment!

So Sherlock played and John fell asleep. Except he didn't know he'd fallen asleep until he was awake and Sherlock was making a sound reminiscent of someone attempting to cough their lung up. His doctor senses kicked in, and he grabbed his stethoscope from his bedroom. "C'mere, you," he commanded, seating Sherlock forcibly on the sofa. He put the cold metal end up to the man's chest and listened. And listened. His expression became stony, and he listened a little longer.

"Sherlock, how long have you been feeling ill?"

Silence.  
"Answer me." His tone brooked no nonsense.

"A week or two at most. Nothing serious."

"I have the medical degree, I'll judge that. I think you may be well on your way to a case of pneumonia. There's nothing for it, you'll have to have X-rays to confirm. Oh don't look at me like that, if you'd have told me so when you first felt sick, you'd probably have been totally fine. As it is, you definitely need to go on antibiotics. I'll write you a prescription."

A year ago, Sherlock would have fought tooth and nail about going out for something as silly as X-rays when he was clearly quite fine, thank you, but in the past year he'd met an army doctor, kind and gentle but strong where it counted, willing to die for him and kill for him, and that had changed him. So he simply nodded and consented to be led wherever John deemed appropriate, because it was John, and he'd never do anything to hurt Sherlock, or do anything that wasn't in his best interest. Despite his lack of any definitive proof, Sherlock knew this to be fact. So he went.

5

A month or two had passed, and John had been sleeping (and awakening) quite regularly, thank you. On one of these nights he was in bed, fast asleep, and quite content to be so. Suddenly he heard an odd growling sound and shot up in bed, wide awake.

Well, he'd have shot up if he could; there was, interestingly enough, an oddly Sherlock-shaped impediment with a head on his shoulder and an arm thrown across his chest. The growling sound came again, accelerating his heart rate. (Things like that had never bothered him until the Baskerville case.) Listening the third time, though, he realized it was emanating from Sherlock's stomach. Laughing at his own paranoia, he tried to remember the last time Sherlock had eaten. Perhaps 18 hours ago? Not healthy by any stretch of the imagination. But now he was asleep, and John was comfortable, and sleep was healthy too, wasn't it? So John let him sleep, snuggling back into his spot and drifting off again.

+1

That morning, John woke up to his alarm, which in and of itself was a little odd. Extremely rare, actually. He rolled over and reached for his mobile out of habit; he often received important texts during the night because Sherlock couldn't be bothered to _call_. Of course, Sherlock would call if it were a matter of life and death, but he knew how much John valued his sleep, so he let him think he was just disinclined to talk on the phone. His version of being considerate.

When he flipped his phone open, there was only one new message in the inbox:

_**Apparently it's considered "bad luck" for the groom to see his intended on the day of the wedding, prior to the actual ceremony. I'll be getting ready elsewhere. See you at 1.**_

_**-SH**_


End file.
